I wore a hat like my dad did almost every day. Mom said I had to let my scalp breathe or, by eighteen, I'd be bald. He wore his hats until they were threadbare and faded from the sun, while I had to replace mine more often as my head grew along with the rest of me. I would watch him take his hat off to wipe his face, then do the same thing, only to get salt in my eyes and a silent scream. I'd catch him looking at me with a smile as I did everything he did, only slower, as he wiped away more sweat or maybe just some salty tears. I'm grown now with a son, a shadow who tries to keep up with me and wears a faded old hat his grandpa gave him. He's lost in it right now, but he will grow into it one day, and the cycle will continue as well it should.
MO
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